Liars’ Convention

This past weekend was the Annual Gathering of Liars down in Drizzle Creek. No I don’t mean the participants in the Walleye Tournament, although I must admit those folks are no slouches when it comes to spinning tall tales. They’ll be here this coming weekend and they’ll certainly have to stretch things a mile or two if they expect to regain championship status.
Nor am I referring to the hopefuls in the upcoming election, although they should have been on hand to take a few pointers. After all whoever is successful in that race will have to spend the next four years- or portion thereof, depending on the whims of the PM obeying laws he has passed.
No, I’m, of course, referring to the crème de le crème of the lying fraternity- Giant Pumpkin Growers or Lords of the Gourds. Their leader in Drizzle Creek, Sir Eltjo ‘Hard Luck’ Whimpering has been setting the stage all year how everything was conspiring against him and his efforts to produce a prize winning Giant Pumpkin. By ‘prize winning’, I mean the largest. Not the ugliest, not the most misshapen, not the smallest, not the scabbiest, but the biggest.
Over the past 14 years past there have been, frosts, droughts, and plagues of insects, marauding Great Beavers, mice, weed infestations, humming bird attacks, groundhogs, and accidental shootings.
This year the range of excuses pretty much ran the gambit.
“I’m so disappointed. Not one of those expensive seeds I imported sprouted,” whimpered Hard Luck over coffee early one morning last spring.
“There, there, young fellow. Don’t cry! Don’t cry! I’ll supply you with one of mine… supply you with one of mine,” soothed Archie Archie, patting Hard Luck on the back.
“I’ve got plenty of extras… plenty of extras,” he added reassuring the hapless Hard Luck.
A month and a half later, it was another crisis.
“I finally got a couple pollinated, and wouldn’t you know, it rotted right off during that last wet spell,” Hard Luck explained, shaking his head sadly.
“Look’s like I’ll be shut out of the winner’s circle again,” he concluded.
“But what about the other one. Surely it’ll make it,” I encouraged, trying to lift his spirits.
“Nope. It met with a small misfortune when I was trying to thin out those pesky groundhogs. Direct hit with a 30-06. She’s toast,” he explained.
Two weeks later, it was the hail and the wind that tore up the punkin’ patch. Then it was the algae bloom on the river plugging up all the holes in his irrigation system. An early frost touched his vines, stunting any further growth.
Saturday morning of the weigh in Hard Luck sat with the other growers picking at his pancakes.
“You know I’ve been sitting up nights to make sure the deer stayed out of the patch, but last night I figured I needed a really good rest in preparation for today, and wouldn’t you know it the terrorists slipped in and ate a hole right through my biggest punkin. Ruined it!” Hard Luck stated, as a tear rolled down his cheek and he set the final stage for another year of defeat.
Around him all the other Lords of the Gourds echoed tales of woe covering everything from bears, to plagues of frogs, to crop circles, and alien spacecraft beaming up their prize orbs.
You never heard such a professional, pre-race’ parade of excuses and position jockeying, all entitled, “I didn’t win because…”
When the smoke had cleared after the weigh-ins, Hard Luck took first, his wife second, and his daughter and grandkids, the next three spots.
My entry was disqualified due to squirrel damage. Maybe there’s something fishy about the judges and the scales?
At least, that’s my excuse… for this year.

In the sauce

One of the wondrous things about this season is the bountiful harvest and all the good things you can make to eat. In case you didn’t know, eating is about my most favourite thing- right next to lying. My wife, the Pearl of the Orient, has been trying to discourage this habit, the eating that is- she’s reluctantly accepted the lying. But things came to a head when I showed up with the latest haul, 30 plus gallons of crab apples.

“Just what do you expect me to do with all those apples? I’m not making pie. Your cholesterol is still way too high and I can’t let out the waistband on your pants any further,” the Pearl snorted with a level of disgust generally reserved for door-to-door peddlers.

“You aren’t bringing them into MY house. It’ll be totally infested with fruit flies before you have to haul them out to the garbage,” she emphasized totally ignoring my protest that it was MY house as well.

“But they were free! And they’ll make great applesauce. You know how healthy that is supposed to be,” I informed her as I began to drool over the prospect of brown toast with lots of butter slathered with applesauce.

“Well have at it. You can make it out here on the deck. Stay out of MY kitchen and put all MY utensils back when you’re finished,” was the final response I got as the door closed in my face.

Undaunted, I set to washing- sort of, quartering and potting the apples. I had every pot full before I had finished the first bucket. Only six more buckets to go. Then I loaded up the cook top as well as the barbecue and set the containers to cook. It was exhausting work, so I took a little break on the sofa while things came to a boil.

I guess I had the lid on that one pot on a little tight, but when it blew, ricocheting off the cupboard, the attendant ‘Boom, Clatter, Clatter!’ brought me fully awake. Fortunately, at the time, the Pearl was off to an extended swim and exercise class, so there were no personal injury or marital abuse issues to deal with. A mop and a bucket quickly cleaned up the mess and the stain on the ceiling is hardly noticeable.

With the apples all nicely boiled, I did a bit of mashing, and it was onto the straining. A couple of windows screens pressed into service speeded up that operation. Besides we don’t open those windows very often and the bug season is pretty much over.

When the Pearl arrived home, I proudly had my production displayed on the counter. The Pearl was impressed and not too put out by the slap dash job I had done of cleaning up. I cleared out to let her bring that area up to her standards. After all, what’s that about discretion being the better part of valour.

Since we were off to Emily and Norm’s for brunch the next day, I insisted on taking a quart of the ambrosia along as a token gift. Emily is a very gracious hostess.

“Isn’t this wonderful. I just love fresh applesauce,” she gushed as she spooned up a servings all round.

“You know you just can’t beat it mixed up with yogurt like this,” she added as we all dipped in with gusto.

“I wanted Norm to make some from our apples, but he said they were too wormy. How did you manage to find crab apples without worms?” Emily continued with unabated enthusiasm.

“Who said my apples didn’t have worms?” I replied.

“Well how did you get them out? It must have involved a lot of cutting,” wondered Emily.

“Who said I got them out?” I replied.

Emily’s spoon stopped someplace between her bowl and her sweet mouth.

Emily’s spoon returned to her bowl.

And it’s amazing how that woman can suppress a gag reflex.

But that’s what being a perfect hostess is all about.

Norm just kept eating.